


Easier to Say

by Little_Lat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Coming Out, Execution, Hanging, Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Aramis, d'Artagnan's an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You did mean us, d’Artagnan,” Athos moved out of Porthos’ arms, although did allow his fingers to remain intertwined with his, “You said it not twelve hours ago. Some things are just easier to say when you don’t know who you’re describing.”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A hanging brings some truths to light which d'Artagnan would rather not face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easier to Say

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about after a conversation with a friend over coming out in different communities. The story is a long one, so I won't write the whole thing here but if you're interested I can tell you in the comments.
> 
> Long story short, I've had Athos' quote "Some things are just easier to say when you don’t know who you’re describing," said to me. It made me see a great deal of things differently. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

Surface water splashed down from the wooden steps of the gallows as the prisoner climbed the final few steps. His hands were twisted behind his back and held together with heavy metal shackles. The soiled, once-white shirt, offered little protection from the wind and rain as they whipped through the square, battering the bodies who had braved the weather to witness the execution. The crowd may not have been as large as a summer’s day execution, but there was a number gathered to watch the man swing. The four Musketeers, however, were here on business, not to gawp. Athos had once said he had seen enough death for a lifetime and, although he was much newer to the life of a soldier, d’Artagnan found himself agreeing. Death was no spectacle, not entertainment. No matter that the crime against this man’s name made his skin crawl, d’Artagnan would never condone the use of hanging for amusement. Not that his opinion mattered, they had a job to do. This was the King’s city, they all were the King’s subjects. It was their duty to ensure the King’s own judgement was carried through to fruition.

The ex-merchant wobbled, wind hammering into his body, as he reached the top of the platform. Neither of the heavily armed Red Guards offered him a steadying hand. Likely, neither wished to touch a prisoner such as this. Despite the gale and awkward balancing act the man stood tall, eyes roaming over the crowd even as they jeered and called out slurs. d’Artagnan couldn’t help but be surprised. The man was hardly an imposing. With the build of a middle of the road merchant, the condemned was tall and thin. His hair was wild, but the length suggested a level of care which would normally see it immaculately groomed.

Strange… d’Artagnan couldn’t help but think how normal the man looked… But then it seemed that you never could tell a man’s devience by the outside alone.

The magistrate stepped forward as the guards began to shuffle the condemned into position. He attempted to unfurl the death warrant, which was no easy task with the weather blowing itself into a full blown storm around him.

“Therin Delacriox,” Even with the magistrate shouting d’Artagnan had to lean forward to hear over the roar of the wind and rain, “You have been tried by the crown and found guilty of crimes against nature and sodomy. Under the law of our King and the Lord Almighty you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”

He rolled the now sodden piece of parchment up and stored it inside his cloak. He turned, pushing his sodden hair from his face and addressed the Guards.

“Prepare the condemned!”

One Guard reached up and snatched the noose which had blown free of its tether in the tempest and gave it a tug to ensure it was still secure. Once he was satisfied the ring of rough rope was stretched over the man’s head. Even as wind and rain snapped around him and the noose was tightened around his neck the man stood tall and unflinching. It was only when the other guard moved forward with a course sack hood did the man veer away. There was a mutter which d’Artagnan didn’t catch, before a hand was fisted in the prisoner’s hair to hold him still. Despite his struggling Delacriox’s head was anchored in place as the guards shoved the sack over his hair and features.

Once the man was in place the Guards stepped back, one of them moving across to the heavy wooden leaver.

“Let this serve as a warning,” The magistrate called out through the rain, touching the ears of all in the square, “To those who wish to pervert our great King’s city. Such deviance, such immorality, will not and will never be tolerated!”

He turned and raised his hand, ready to give the signal, when another shout filled the sodden square.

“I die for LOVE!”

D’Artagnan frowned, unsure for a moment where the shout was coming from. Neither Guard’s mouth had moved, the voice quite different to the magistrates. Suddenly d’Artagnan realised the shout was coming from underneath the hood. From Delacriox the condemned man.

“I die for a love that you all condemn! God is lovel! Love is never wrong! Love is-“

The magistrate’s hand came down, the Guard pulled the lever, and the trap door clanked open. Delacroix’s body plummeted through the opening. The rope snapped tight and his words died. Some of the crowd erupted half-hearted cheers, but most turned away and began to fight against the wind and rain towards home.

As the Red Guard cut the lifeless body down d’Artagnan turned back to his three friends. Athos met his eyes questioningly, but Aramis’ gaze was still on the body of Therin Delacriox, now abandoned in face down in the Parisian mud. Raindrops battered against his face and body, brown sludge matting against his dark curls and his icy pale skin.  There was something unreadable in Aramis’ gaze, something hidden behind the water that thundered down over the brim of his hat.

d’Artagnan opened his mouth and question his friend, but Porthos got their first. A heavy hand fell on their youngest’s shoulder, a moment later the other finding Athos’.

“We need some wine,” Porthos decided with gentle forcefulness in his voice, “And heat. Athos go ‘nd find us a table. d’Artagnan...” He dug into a pocket and tossed the boy two coins, ”First bottle’s on me. Go grab us one, will ya?”

Athos a small nod of understanding. He placed a firm hand on d’Artagnan’s arm to make sure he turned with him. With his head down to deflect the worst of the icy wind Athos began his way up the street toward their favoured tavern, d’Artagnan following behind. Porthos turned his gaze to his companion and let it linger a moment longer than was strictly sensible given what had just transpired. Aramis just continued his stare at the body.

“Aramis…” Porthos offered in a quiet murmur, “Ya’ can’t help ‘im. We need ta’ go.”

“He,” Aramis’ voice shook traitorously. He paused, swallowed, and continued, “He won’t have been offered his last rites… He – he spoke on the Lord with his final breath but no priest will have thought to offer him them.”

Porthos reached up a hand and offered Aramis’ shoulder a squeeze, “You don’t know that.“

“After all he’s just a _sodomite,”_ Aramis spate the word from his mouth as if it was poisoned, “Why would anyone bother? No priest of the Châtelet would ever waste their time.”

_Oh Aramis…_ Porthos knew that he should be forcing Aramis away from the situation, away from the corpse, but then he doubted Aramis would move in this moment. He didn’t see the point in Last Rites himself, but knew just how much they meant to Aramis and his faith. If it would sooth his gentle friend’s hurting heart then so be it.

“Do you wish to offer it now?” Porthos asked.

Aramis let out a humorously chuckle, “I’m no priest, Porthos.”

“I doubt God’s that picky. More about what’s in your heart than titles n’ all that…”

For a moment the only sound around them would was the hammering of the rain and howls as the wind whipped around them as Aramis thought.

“Would you…” Aramis murmured finally, “Would you wait for me?”

By now it felt like the cold had seeped down into Porthos’ bones. Despite the many layers of clothing the linen and wool and leather were was soaked right through and heavy with retained water. But, of course, Porthos nodded.

“If you wish.”

So Porthos stood guard, watchful and still, as Aramis stepped forward towards the lifeless figure. As the wind and rain whipped around him, Porthos stood as a silent witness as the Aramis knelt down in the mud covered street and began to murmur Latin words over the lifeless body.

* * *

 

It sometimes seemed as though Athos could work some kind of black magic, Porthos mused, because there didn’t seem to be another explanation as to why he had managed to pecure the table closest to the fire in the tavern despite the weather howling outside. It had to be some kind black magic, or at least Athos’ famous, _do as I say and no one will get die_ glare.

By the time Aramis and Porthos found their friends there their cloaks were hung up close to the fire, doublets hooked over the backs of their chairs to dry out. Steam was practically rising from d’Artagnan’s linin undershirt as the flames warmed him, his hair curling slightly as it dried. The purchased wine sat on the table, along with four goblets.

_Good lad…_ Porthos nodded to himself as he unbuckled his uniform cloak and hung his own and Aramis’ up with the others.

“Who did ya’ kill to get these seats?” Pothos asked as he flopped down. He grabbed the wine bottle by the neck and tugged the cork out with his teeth.

Athos offered a flat, unimpressed stare at the brutal treatment of the wine but did offer his own glass to be filled.

“I never reveal my secrets,” Athos tipped his head in thanks, sipping the wine. Porthos filled the other three glasses and passed them out. d’Artagnan nodded in thanks, but Aramis just downed the cup and held it out for refilling. Porthos obeyed, but did offer a warning with the refill.

“Slowly, Aramis.”

The man just grunted, but did sip the second goblet more slowly.

Porthos patted the man on the arm before taking a long drink of his own cup.

“Good stuff,” He nodded in appreciation to d’Artagnan, who just shrugged.

“Like Athos would have allowed anything less to grace our table.”

Athos gave no indication that he had been at all ruffled by the words, merely taking a sip from his goblet.

“Just because you were born in a barn doesn’t mean I should allow you to act as such.”

Porthos snorted with laughter, but Aramis didn’t even crack a smile. He just continued to stare into his cup. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to the world around him.

d’Artagnan frowned. He leaned over and nudged Athos. Once he was sure he had the older man’s attention he raised a questioning eyebrow, nodding towards their friend.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Athos offered d’Artagnan a level look over his goblet, “Are we supposed to be celebrating?  Are executions usually a reason to rejoice in Gascony?”

d’Artagnan flushed, hiding his embarrassment behind a sip of wine, “Of course not, I never meant we should be _happy_ but, I mean… It’s not like we knew him..?”

“We did not,” Athos conceded, “But why should our grief only be reserved to those we know personally?”

The look Athos offered him was one d’Artagnan found hard to read. It was questioning but guarded, as if some, _something,_ rode on his answer.

“Well no… But it’s not like he didn’t deserve it Men lying together is just…” d’Artagnan shuddered, “Sodomites know the law and ignore it. You can’t flaunt God’s commandments in full view of the Guard and expect to get away with it….”

“Delacroix didn’t _flaunt_ anything,” Athos pointed out, his voice still frustratingly even, “A bedroom in a tavern is hardly flaunting. He was just unlucky that guards had taken the room next door and heard them. He was just unlucky.”

d’Artagnan looked at the man as if he had grown a second head, “Unlucky? Athos he _chose_ to take part in sodomy! Chose to sin, chose to break the law! I will not feel sorry for a criminal!”

“Criminal?” Aramis’ voice cut across anything Athos was about to say. D’Artagnan looked up in surprise, although was taken a back at the fury he found in his friend’s gaze.

D’Artagnan frowned, “I just meant that-“

“Oh I know what you meant,” The sneer in Aramis’ voice actually made d’Artagnan recoil, “Delacroix deserved what he got, right? Hung for the entertainment of all Paris.”

“Well…” d’Artagnan wasn’t exactly sure how he had become the bad guy in this situation, “Yes? Not the entertainment part, but he broke the law, the King’s law, _God’s_ law. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

“Aramis don’t…” Porthos placed a hand which was supposed to be comforting on Aramis’s shoulders, “Stop. It’s not-“

“No Porthos,” Aramis snapped, his glare firmly trained on their youngest, “ _Father_ d’Artagnan here was just about to give us a sermon on the evils homosexuality. Tell me, when was the last time you even went to Mass, d’Artagnan? You’re hardly in a position to start spouting scripture.”

“I don’t have go to Mass every Sunday to know that sodomy is _wrong_ , Aramis!” d’Artagnan glared “It’s against God’s law, the King’s law, it’s unnatural! Men with men is wrong. It’s debauched and disgusting! I won’t defend a man who’s guilty of that!”

“Are you truly that naïve or only mentally inadequate?”

“You’re defending a man you’ve never even met for breaking the most basic of nature’s laws,” d’Artagnan’s voice rose, meeting Aramis’ eyes glare for glare, “And insulting me while doing it! What’s wrong with you?”

Out of the corner of his eye d’Artagnan saw his friend’s hand flex and tense and for a moment d’Artagnan though Aramis might actually punch him. But then Porthos’ hand was on Aramis’ fist, forcing it to remain on the table.

The man began to mutter in a low voice too low for d’Artagnan to hear at the same time Athos’ hand found his shoulder.

“I think you should go,” Athos murmured close to his ear, eyes never once moving from Aramis who seemed still on the edge of breaking d’Artagnan’s nose.

d’Artagnan’s hand came down heavily onto the wooden table, causing the cups of wine to quake. “ _What_?”

“d’Artagnan, he’s upset. For now it’s best to –“

“He is the one who is defending the sodomite and _I_ am the one who needs to leave?”

“You have no idea do you?” Aramis spat savagely, the venom in his glare the likes of which d’Artagnan had never felt directed at him. He made a move to stand, but Porthos pressed him, carefully but firmly back into his chair.

“d’Artagnan just go,” This time Athos’ voice was more of an instruction. A command. For a second d’Artagnan thought about resisting, to continue his arguing, but he couldn’t _outright_ deny an order from their leader. In the end d’Artagnan shoved violently back from the table, grabbing his mostly dry doublet from the back of his chair. He tugged it on savagely.

“I thought it was our job to uphold the _law_ ,” He glared as he checked the buckle of his prized paudron, “I didn’t realise we were allowed to pick and choose!”

Aramis actually _snarled_ , fury finally bubbling over. Athos moved to Aramis’ other side, helping Porthos to keep their friend pressed into the seat. Athos looked back up to d’Artagnan, this time the beginning of his own glare tugging at his eyes.

“Leave. _Now!_ ”

“Fine!” d’Artagnan snapped. He turned, stalking away from the group like a bear with a saw head. It was only when he pushed out the tavern door into the storm which was in full swing outside, did he realise he hadn’t grabbed his uniform cloak.

Damn…

He was tempted to go back, but his pride all too strong. Pride, or stubbornness. So he just strode out into the storm, arms crossed over his chest in frustration against the cold and the rain, as he strode back towards his lodgings.

* * *

 

It was hours later before d’Artagnan finally stopped smarting from the argument. The embarrassment over effectively being _dismissed_ by Athos still stung, and not really understanding _why_ made it worse.  He had spoken the truth, he had spoken with the law on his side, so where had this defensive nature come from? Perhaps, d’Artagnan wondered ideally, whether Aramis might have known the Delacroix man. He hadn’t exactly thought to check. It would have been mighty embarrassing to find out someone you consider a friend was a sodomite – perhaps d’Artagnan couldn’t blame him after all.

Still, d’Artagnan had no real desire to see any of the men he had apparently offended. And he wouldn’t have had to, if he had just _remembered_ his damned cloak.  d’Artagnan cursed himself yet again as he picked his away over the cobblestones, trying to avoid the puddles which had been left by the storm. It was mostly over now, torrential rain reduced to gentle spitting, the wind little more than a breeze.

 He would have just left his blasted cloak with Athos for a few days if it wasn’t for the fact he was supposed to be on parade at the palace the following morning and Treville would bounce his broken body up and down the Garrison if he showed up in anything other than full colours. So here he was, ready to swallow his pride. He could only hope that Athos _had_ picked up his cloak, as if had been left in the tavern there would be little hope of him getting it back.

The idea of admitting to Treville that he had lost part of his uniform made d’Artagnan shudder… No… He just had to pray the older man had it.

Athos’ lodgings weren’t far from his own, a few decent sized room on the first floor towards the centre of the city. The land lady, an old woman more deaf than not, opened the door with a gummy smile and waved d’Artagnan upstairs, mumbling something about the number of visitors tonight. D’Artagnan barely listened as he took the stairs, thinking over what exactly he was going to say. He didn’t want to apologise, could he get away with making amends without apologising? It wasn’t as though he had been in the _wrong_. It wasn’t his fault Aramis had been feeling delicate.

Once he reached Athos’ door he raised a hand to knock, although was caught short, first by the door sitting ajar and second by the whispers which filtered through the cracked door and into the stairwell.

“- How can you not be angry? How could you just sit there and listen to him spew that _hate_?”

_Aramis…_

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, we haven’t heard before. He didn’t mean it.”

_Athos…_

“He sounded like he did!”

“He has no idea what he believes. He believes what he’s told, never had a reason ta’ think different.”

_Porthos…_ They were all there?

“Ignorance is not an excuse!”

 “No?” There was a sigh… “Ignorance is the only excuse. He’s been told all his life that to love in any way but that of the bible is an abomination. You cannot blame him for believing it.”

“But how could he _think_ that? How could he look at you two and see anything but love…”

 “But he doesn’ look at us two… When he says those things he don’ mean us. He’d never mean us…”

“So you hope…”

d’Artagnan stepped forward and squinted through the small gap between the door and its frame. He caught sight of Aramis on a stool, white undershirt untucked and billowing as he leaned forward, hands buried in his dark curls. The others were out of sight, but d’Artagnan could still hear their voices. d’Artagnan could feel his heart hammering against his chest, half wondering how the noise wasn’t giving him away. He didn’t mean to spy, didn’t mean to ease-drop, but what he was hearing… It couldn’t be…

“I’m sorry the world can’t accept your love…” Aramis blew out a breath, eyes staying fixed on the floor, “I’m sorry I cannot help. I’m sorry I… I suppose I’m just sorry.”

Footsteps creaked their way towards the stool and then Athos was within d’Artagnan’s field of view. The man stood barefoot in his home, wearing only his breeches and shirtsleeves, hair curling even more than normal thanks to the rain.

“It is none of your doing…” Athos sighed. He reached out a hand and tugged his friend into a tight hug, “But your support means more to us than you can ever imagine. Thank you, Aramis…”

Aramis sighed, accepting his friend’s embrace without reservation. His eyes had remained closed for a few moments, enjoying the comfort. But then they opened, looking straight towards the opened door. D’Artagnan yelped as if scalded and scrambled backwards, but not quick enough. In his haste to get away he tumbled over his own feet and lost his balance. A few inches to the left and he would have tumbled down the stairs instead of just thudding loudly against the wall in a heap.

Three separate pairs of feet thudded against the floorboards and a moment later the door was thrown open. Three men glared down at him, eyes narrowing in emotions ranging from suspicion to fury.

“I…” d’Artagnan attempted weakly, “I need my cloak for tomorrow… I’d hoped you’d picked it up?”

A long moment stretched out between them, as if everyone waiting for another to speak. Then, finally, Athos stepped forward.

“Your cloak is here… I suggest you come inside to collect it.”

* * *

 

“How much did you hear?” Aramis demanded. If d’Artagnan thought he was angry before… Well that was nothing compared to this. Indignation sparked from his ever pour, outrage swirling with fury in the gaze which he turned on their youngest.

d’Artagnan was sat on the stool which Aramis had only recently vacated, the older man standing in front of him, arms folded and glaring. Porthos stood off to the side, watching the situation before him but saying rather little, while Athos closed and bolted the door before turning back to the room.

“I…” d’Artagnan swallowed, attempting to order his thoughts, “I mean…”

Aramis took a menacing step forward, “How _much_?”

“Aramis…” Athos’ said warningly, “This is not an interrogation.”

“Oh no?” Aramis glanced at Athos, before returning his glare to the man on the stool, “Perhaps it should be. You heard him this afternoon. _Debauched_ and _disgusting_?”

d’Artagnan flinched, “I… I didn’t mean…”

“You said it,” Aramis snapped. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, across his sculpted beard. “So what happens now? You leave here and go straight to Treville? To the magistrate? You plan to stand guard at a couple more sodomite executions?”

“No, no!” d’Artagnan stood up violently, the stool shooting out from under him, “ I wouldn’t – Aramis your secret is -”

Aramis blinked, taken a back suddenly. For a second the fight went out of him, replaced with confusion. “My secret?”

Everything paused for a moment. d’Artagnan frowned. Aramis had been so angry before…Furious at the law and the situation as if he had some personal stake in it.

“The secret is not Aramis’,” Athos said finally with a sigh. He watched in confusion as Athos stepped forward, touching his Aramis on the arm, a gentle instruction to stand down, “It’s mine.”

“Yours?” d’Artagnan blinked, thinking he had to have heard the word incorrectly.

Porthos pushed off the wall where he had been observing and stepped into the groups’ circle.

“And mine...”

d’Artagnan watched, dumbfounded as Porthos reached out and linked his fingers through Athos’, intertwining them. With a sigh of admission Porthos drew the man to his chest. Athos allowed himself to fit into the hollow of Porthos’ neck, letting out a nervous, shaky, breath. Porthos pressed a gentle kiss to Athos’ hairline and allowed his eyes to close for the smallest of seconds, taking comfort in each other.

“You’re…” When d’Artagnan couldn’t find the words, Porthos offered some.

“Debauched…. Disgustin’?”

d’Artagnan flinched, his own words thrust back at him.

“I didn’t mean...”

“You did mean us, d’Artagnan,” Athos moved out of Porthos’ arms, although did allow his fingers to remain intertwined with his, “You said it not twelve hours ago. Some things are just easier to say when you don’t know who you’re describing.”

“I…” d’Artagnan had a thousand questions, but it felt like they were all trying to get out of one narrow door at once. Athos just watched him, waiting patiently. d’Artagnan couldn’t help but have his eyes drawn down to those entwined hands again and again.

With a frustrated sigh d’Artagnan tried again, “But you’re not…”

Sodomites were immoral, dirty! They held no self-control and were a slave to their sinful urges.  They weren’t…

“Not what?” Athos prompted gently, “Not what you expected of some filth _y_ sodomites?”

Porthos offered his lover’s hand a gentle squeeze, “d’Artagnan we’re the same as we were yesterday. You jus’ know the truth now…”

“But you were married!” d’Artagnan pointed out, desperate to make sense of the situation around him. Had the world gone mad?

“I was,” Athos nodded, thinking back over that last relationship. It felt so long ago, another life ago, “And I loved her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love Porthos now.”

_Love…_ The word dropped into the room and settled between them like an unsteady explosive.

D’Artagnan swallowed unsteadily, rolling the word around in his mind. His eyes snapped back to the men before him, gaze sliding from Athos, to Porthos and back again.

“So this isn’t just about… _That…_ ” d’Artagnan shuddered, having no desire to conjure any images of his friends’ private moments to mind, “You really do love each other.”

“I love ‘im,” Porthos promised, raising their linked hands to his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss to Athos’ pale skin as the other man nodded.

“More than life itself.”

Athos’ choice of words suddenly felt ill-placed, sickenly poignant.

“They will kill you if they ever find out,” d’Artagnan ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“And I would climb the gallows for him,” Athos looked back to Porthos, who seemed about ready to take exception to his promise, “I would Porthos, don’t argue with me. If it proved you safe I would without a second thought. However I think we both hope it won’t ever come to that…”

“But that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, eyes settling back on d’Artagnan, “And what you decide to do.”

d’Artagnan had no wish to answer that question, to be confronted with those options, so instead deflected.

“What’s your stake in this?” He aimed a question at Aramis instead, “Why did you get so offended in the tavern?”

“Because I refuse to listen to you spouting hatred about something of which you have no understanding!” Aramis spat, “Do you know how many sodomite executions I have stood guard at? How many times I’ve looked at those poor condemned sods and seen Porthos? Or Athos? They’re guilty of nothing more than falling in love and love is _never_ wrong – to hell with what the law says!”

“Aramis…” Athos released Porthos’ hand and instead turned to his friend. Aramis’ fury seemed to drain out of him, leaving behind only sorrow.

“It’s not fair…” Aramis, for a terrifying moment, looked on the verge of tears. Athos drew him into a gentle embrace which Aramis gratefully accepted. He allowed his head to lull down onto Athos’ shoulder. When he continued to speak again, the words were slightly muffled by Athos’ undershirt.  “You love each other more than any noble couple I’ve ever seen. All those aristocrats at court blacken the name of love by marrying for alliances and money but you too are condemned because, _why?_ You’re both men? It’s disgusting.”

“We cannot change society in a single day,” Athos soothed, “But the support and love of our friends is more than many people can ever hope for…”

“Friend,” Aramis corrected, his head finally raising up from Athos’ shoulder. His eyes found d’Artagnan and gaze the distinct impression he was being weighed… Measured. “d’Artagnan has yet to tell us whether his feelings on the matter have evolved..?”

Porthos’ dark gaze and Athos’ intense stare turned to join Aramis’. d’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably under such heavy scrutiny. He flinched, looked down at his hands for a moment.

“I…”

“It is our duty to uphold the law,” Athos sounded so, _so,_ reasonable, as if they were discussing the turn of the weather, not he and his love’s freedom, “If you can’t see past that, d’Artagnan… Well I understand. I can only ask that you allow as until morning before you inform the magistrate. A professional curtesy?”

“You cannot be serious!” Aramis exploded, “You cannot just _allow_ him to walk out of here and destroy everything you’ve built up here, not after so long!”

“And what do you suggest?” Porthos’ voice was sad, resigned, “We ain’t bruits, ain’t savages. I won’t become like those who kill because they don’ understand.”

“We need to pack,” Athos touched the small of Porthos’ back, a look of sad acceptance painted across his features, “Only the absolute essentials. Aramis do you think you can charm the stablers at the Garrison into saddling up two horses? I’ll leave money to purchase replacements…”

The three figures began to move around d’Artagnan, all setting about their tasks as if d’Artagnan wasn’t even in the room. Aramis already had his hand on the door latch, Porthos stuffing clothes into a saddlebag before he found his voice.

“I, I won’t!” d’Artagnan’s voice rang out, stilling every hand in the room. Athos turned slowly to face his young friend, expression unreadable.

“Won’t what, d’Artagnan?”

“I…” d’Artagnan ran a hand through his hair, tugging savagely at a knot until his allowed his fingers through, “Look I won’t pretend that I understand your feelings and I… I’m not sure I want to _see_ it but...”

But what..?

Three sets of eyes turned and focused on d’Artagnan, hanging on his every word.

“You two have the highest moral characters in all of Paris…” d’Artagnan sighed, “If, if you truly love each other then perhaps there is more to the law which I do not understand.”

“We would never ask you to lie for us, d’Artagnan,” Athos promised, the smallest glimmer of hope sparking in his gaze.

“And I’m not sure if I could...” d’Artagnan admitted with a sigh of admission, “But… Treville, or the magistrate… They will not hear anything from me.”

Tension seeped out of the room. Packing forgotten Porthos dropped the saddlebags and crossed the room in two striding steps, bundling Athos into a desperately relieved embrace. d’Artagnan shifted a little uncomfortably as Athos sagged against the large man, but was blessedly distracted by Aramis’ hand on his shoulder. d’Artagnan looked around. For the first time that day there was warmth in his friend’s eyes.

“That’s a good thing you just did…” Aramis smiled, giving d’Artagnan’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, “And I realise it wasn’t easy, so well done…”

d’Artagnan snuck a look at the pair, unsure of how he would feel if it was overly… Intimate… And it was... _Intimate..._ Porthos’ arms were wrapped around Athos, one hand curled and fisted into his dark curls, as if daring anyone to try and take him away. Athos’ whole body sagged in relief, face hidden against the larger man’s collarbone. It took d’Artagnan a moment to realise their leader was shaking, quivering. Their strong, stoic leader, was falling to pieces in his lovers arms at the idea of being separated. Porthos’ head was bent, whispering something into Athos’. d’Artagnan couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but the low rumble of his Porthos’ voice was gentle and lulling, and caused Athos to nod very slightly.

Something constricted inside d’Artagnan’s stomach but not unpleasantly… He didn’t know what he should have expected to feel upon seeing two men caught up in a private moment. Anger? Revulsion? He didn’t. He certainly wasn’t comfortable watching his friends in such a way, but then he would likely feel just uncomfortable being party to Aramis and one of his lovers… No, he _was_ uncomfortable, but there was something else too. A warmth radiating out from the centre of his chest.

It was nice…

“They deserve happiness…” d’Artagnan murmured, finally turning back to look at Aramis, “Even if I don’t strictly understand it…”

“Good man!” Aramis slapped him on the back happily, “Now how about we find your cloak, then give these two some privacy..?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan nodded, a smile tugging at his lips, “I think that’s for the best…”


End file.
